Nobler than my father
by FPB
Summary: Cleo Malfoy loves her family. And they are quite fond of her. But she is a thoroughly good person, and the rest of them, to put it mildly, are not. Sooner or later, she is going fo suffer for it...


Nobler than my father

A young man and two young women walked in the high heath that rose eastwards from Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. The lad was tall, swarthy, with a strong nose and ardent black eyes under deep overhanging black brows, his hair in black ringlets. One of the girls was middle-sized, light-skinned, with intelligent eyes and a thick bush of brown hair; the other was small, plump, with flat black hair and a sweet round face with an unfortunate amount of pockmarks. They were booted and cloaked against the cold; it was a sunny but freezing winter day, and a thin, insistent east wind cut like a razor – the kind of weather in which the unwary traveller could die of exposure. But two of them, at least, were never unwary; in different ways, their lives, though young – neither was past their teens – had got them used to defending themselves and to hidden enemies. Blaise Zabini and Hermione Granger, with Eloise Midgen, remembering someone just lost: the love of the one, the dear friend of the other, the love _and_ the dear friend of the third.

They did not speak. Each had a number of scenes seared in the memory, scenes that ruled their thought to the point that each of them might have trouble speaking without crying.

....................................................................................................

A gathering in Dumbledore's rooms in Hogwarts, a few months before; a stormy gathering, with anger and humiliation on every side. Lucius Malfoy, angry and stiff; Dumbledore, untypically holding himself in the background; Draco, shocked and quivering; a puzzled Cleo Malfoy, supported by Blaise; and, half-hidden by Blaise, Cleo's best friend, Hermione Granger, who was also there to support Cleo, but had no desire to draw any more attention to herself. And, at the centre of the row, Narcissa Malfoy, white with fury and shame, staring at Madam Pomfrey, Hogwarts' excellent Medi-witch, who was staring right back. The meeting had begun badly; Narcissa, who, right from the beginning, had shown that she was the angriest of them all, demanding Hermione be thrown out.

"She has no business being here! This is a family matter!"

"Mother," said Cleo calmly but firmly, "she is my best friend. I have no secrets from her."

"Oh yes, you poor ninny," answered her mother in a rage. "That's a hell of a friend to have. So all our business gets handed right to Porter and the Weasleys, don't you understand?"

"Darling," said Lucius repressively, while Hermione tried to make it understood that she would leave if she wasn't welcome; only to be completely ignored by the quarrelling Malfoys. The ordinarily ice-cool and capable Narcissa was so beside herself that she not only ignored her husband, but even forgot where and whose guest she was.

"I'm not going to have our private family matters discussed by in front of a filthy Mudblood!"

"_Narcissa_!" said her husband, appalled. He wouldn't have minded such talk in private, but not when they were in the private rooms of their greatest enemy.

"Mrs.Malfoy," said Dumbledore in a voice that would have frozen lava, "this is my private study and Miss Granger is my student. If you cannot refrain yourself from such language, I am going to have to ask you to leave." And to make sure that she did not underrate him, he had lightning softly crackle and shimmer around him.

Lucius' arm reached around Narcissa's shoulder, in the guise of a loving embrace, but she felt the savage squeeze and understood the message. Slowly, as if the words were being dragged out of her by a windlass, she said: "I apologize for my... mistaken... use of language. I am under great stress, Professor. This news, _if it is true_" – and she stared meaningfully at Madam Pomfrey – "alters much of what we believed about ourselves."

"That is why," she said after a calculated pause, designed to give her words the maximum of impact, "I would have felt happier if it had come from a wholly trustworthy source."

It was Madam Pomfrey's turn to be outraged. "I am not used to having my competence or my honesty challenged, let alone by a Malfoy."

It was Dumbledore's turn to be repressive. "_Poppy_!"

"We are not offended, Albus," answered Lucius Malfoy coldly. "We are perfectly aware that our family has a certain reputation. It is one we have often found useful." In point of fact, Narcissa, Draco and even Cleo were indeed offended, but they appreciated the comeback and stayed calm. "However, I would like Madam Pomfrey to explain her _extraordinary_ findings in some detail. She need not worry about being technical; she may find that some of us are quite capable of understanding magical physiology."

"I'll bet, you vicious bastard," thought Madam Pomfrey, "after all, you've tortured enough of us." Under Dumbledore's stern look, she kept her thought to herself, but everyone in the room could guess it. She kept silent for a second, then began her talk.

It soon took the character of a lecture: description of comparative human and elven anatomy, a general account of what was known of elves and especially of the sub-group known as Dark Elves, and a discourse on Cleo Malfoy's nervous system.

"Various features of her brother's had already led me to certain suspicions; but in the case of Miss Cleo, the evidence really is beyond doubt. Ask any competent Medi-Wizard, Mr.Malfoy, _even if they work for the Dark Side_, and you will get the same answer, _unless they are afraid of you_." All the significant words were spoken with such emphasis that the slowest perception could not have missed them. "There is an Elvish strain in the Malfoy blood – and the evidence is that it is of Dark Elf origin – which has come out particularly strongly in her."

"Her elvish looks are the least of it. Miss Malfoy is truthful and stout-hearted, and she willingly admits that she is rather slow. Magical scan shows that her central nervous system is a mix of wizard and elvish features, and that this is the reason why her mental processes are more slow and painful than average." (Here, Blaise quietly squeezed Cleo's shoulder.) "There is nothing wrong with her character or her intellect, except for a physical problem."

"Our family records," answered Narcissa obstinately, "show no Elvish connection whatever. It is not a thing we would keep hidden."

"I do not care about your records, Mrs. Malfoy. You cannot deny the facts. There is Elvish blood in both your children, period. In fact, looking at you, I think can see traces in you _both_. And if I didn't know what extraordinary tricks heredity can play, I would say that it is quite recent."

Both Lucius and Narcissa felt, inwardly, as if an icy knife had penetrated their spines. Poppy Pomfrey's remark about them both having the same strain of Elvish blood came too close to surprising their awful secret – that they were not cousins, but brother and sister, and that they had once performed a terrible ritual to make the rest of the world forget it. And they were not encouraged by what Dumbledore said after her: "I do not think we need worry about Mrs.Malfoy's descent, Poppy" – a remark made with what seemed a studied casual air, and without looking at them. "The strain comes surely from the Malfoy side. Just remember how like each other Draco, Lucius and Lucius' father have been."

"But surely," broke in Cleo naively, "the records can be wrong? I mean, it's so easy to be mistaken about the father of your baby..."

She fell silent as she saw "the look", the air of immediate disdain and rejection with which she was so familiar; only, she had never felt it turned to her. Indeed, if she had thought it over for a week, she could not have made a remark more hurtful to her parents' feelings. The piles and rolls of magical parchment that recorded the descent of her family were their talisman, their token of self-respect: the line of unblemished sorcerous blood they showed, from a time before the Romans conquered Carthage, stood in their eyes for superiority and purity. They could not afford to have them challenged – even by inserting a strain that they would regard as genetically superior, as Elves were superior to mortals. And indeed, anyone but Cleo would have understood the issue.

Under the barrage of furious glances from Lucius, Narcissa and even Draco, she withered. While in no way spoilt, she had spent her whole life cradled in the affection of all those who were closest to her – parents, relatives, and, of late, friends such as Hermione and Eloise; knowing that one look from her candid grey eyes could soften her father, melt her mother, warm up her cynical brother, and that she was their darling. Rejection and outrage were not things she was used to. She was more than scared: she felt as though the ground might be, at any moment, jerked from under her, that the web of loves that was at the core of her being might be withdrawn and vanish, leaving her alone, without father, without mother, without brother. She felt as though an abyss had opened at her feet.

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Two months later, an unearthly caravan appeared at the gates of Hogwarts. Dressed wholly in black, grey, silver and white, with black the dominant colour, they rode many strange beasts, some like silvery stags, others – the ones that bore the biggest burdens – like baby dragons. They were tall, towering over ordinary men, with long limbs and spidery hands; all their faces were covered by sun-like masks; and many black and silver banners flew above them. At their bidding, the gates fell open, and the long procession ambled its way into the avenue that led to the castle.

They did not go far. As only the first few elven beasts had crossed the gates, a single figure appeared before them, and stopped them in their tracks. "_Dark Elves_!" rang Dumbledore's voice in their minds; "Tell me why you come here and why you dare to cross the gates without permission."

An angry Dumbledore was a thing to be feared, even by a host of immortals; so the leader of the Elves bent his head and answered, not in the haughty style natural to them, but in apologetic tones.

"Forgive our discourtesy, great Lord Albus. The Elves are, perhaps, too used to going where they please. But we only come to claim what is ours by right... we come to the call of our blood."

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Dumbledore needed to hear no more. He summoned Draco and Cleopatra Malfoy and sent a mental message to their parents. A Portkey was hastily arranged; and within twenty minutes, the leaders of the Elves, all looking similar behind their masks, were confronting the Malfoys and Blaise Zabini, who, as Cleo's unofficial betrothed, thought he had a right to be involved where she was concerned. Once again, the meeting took place in Dumbledore's rooms; once again, it was stormy.

"Surely you must see that we only demand what is ours by right. The girl is more elven than human; anyone can see that. And there is no shame in moving from humanity to elvenkind."

"But I don't want to!" Cleo was not made to be decorous: in this unprecedented crisis, her behaviour was no different from a child's – angry, tearful, even a little whiny. Her father saw it and felt distaste – and yet recognized that it was inevitable. She would behave like that. His long knowledge of her told him that this was her nature, and that there was no way to change it. She would never be a Malfoy for deportment or dignity. He caught his wife's eye, and realized she felt the same. "I don't know who you are, and I don't belong with you. My home is here!"

"Child, your home is with us. Our claim overpasses your father's, as our blood is nobler than that of a mere pureblood wizard; and our claim in you is deeper than his, as you are more close to us than he or your mother are – or than you to them."

"No! I don't give a damn about your blood!" (Lucius physically winced, and Draco went white.) "I want to live with the people I love. And as far as I am concerned, there is _nothing_ nobler than my father!"

"Perhaps you ought to let me decide about that, my dear," broke in Lucius coolly; and Cleo felt herself go cold inside. There was something about his unexpected intervention, about his calm and unconcerned tone, that scared her white.

Blaise could have told her before. He had watched the Malfoys, and heard her passionate and affectionate and fatally wrong-headed pleadings, and he could read Lucius Malfoy's mind nearly as well as Lucius himself. With every word spoken, Cleo had been losing ground in her parents' estimation. True, she had been dear to them once. But the love that endeared her as a child was a steady source of outrages in an adult. Her very affection for them led her to blaspheme, over and over again, against a system of values among which she had lived all her life without ever absorbing it.

But the truth – as Hermione suggested to Blaise later; and he agreed – was that nothing had counted against her so much as the humiliation she had unconsciously inflicted on her whole family, in that same room, no more than two months before, and which Hermione had witnessed. _So easy to be mistaken about the father of your baby_, is it? Never, not even under the most savage punishments inflicted by the Dark Lord, had Lucius and Narcissa ever felt so small, so depreciated, so worthless. Born like other animals, in a fog of ignorance? Deprived of the solid ground on which they had stood tall and proud all their lives? This was Lucius and Narcissa's vengeance on their daughter. She lived in complete misunderstanding of what being a Malfoy was; well, let her learn, here, now. So Lucius spoke, fully aware of what his words would do to Cleo.

"All my life I have lived by certain values. I have always firmly believed in a hierarchy of merit and birth; I have always defended the claims of noble blood. It would be a poor show if I were to deny my values when the issue touches me."

The horrified teen-ager tried not to believe what she was hearing. Word after word fell on her world like axes, like sledgehammers, like the trampling paws of a horde of mad elephants; her whole life, her little, sheltered, loving life, was being undone, plucked apart seam by seam. She looked at Blaise, and saw his face so grim that she did not dare even speak to him; besides, she knew that he could do nothing.

"The child is a minor," Lucius Malfoy went on unperturbed, looking straight at Blaise Zabini, who stared right back with a stony countenance. "Her mother and I have _patria potestas_ over her. Let those present, Professor Dumbledore, Mr.Zabini, and you, Draco our son, be witnesses that we surrender our _patria potestas_ over Cleopatra Glory-of-the-Father, our sometime daughter, into the hand of the leader of the Dark Elves." Narcissa's hand joined his, to underline that this was a joint decision; and Draco nodded.

Cleo could not speak any more. Sobs shook her from head to toe, and she fell to her knees. She could hardly see her father for tears, and, when she tried to reach out to him, she felt her arms like a solid mass of lead, trembling, unable to move. The hands of two Elves seized her from behind; weakly trying to resist, she found herself covered in elven weeds. Through her tears, her eyes sought out the one person who had not yet rejected her; they held Blaise's eyes, silently, desperately, even as an elven sun-mask was slid over her head and fitted to her features. Even as she was taken away, the mask's hollow eyes were still pointed at him.

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This was the story that Blaise Zabini told Hermione and Eloise that morning, when they asked about the missing Cleo; still stony-faced, still holding that immovable countenance that had faced Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Elves. Eloise broke down, sobbing like Cleo had done; Hermione wept, but she also clenched her fists, thinking of having to meet Draco in class and look him in the face without spitting in it. Selling his own sister...! Yes, it had been Lucius who had spoken; but Draco had consented. If he had stood up and protested, would Lucius have had the nerve to continue? No, Draco was fully complicit in the crime; of that, Hermione was certain – and she was right. She had thought before now that she could believe any possible evil of the Malfoys; now she realized that there were depths of depravity to which her imagination was, as yet, incapable of sinking. If she ever could make Draco and his dreadful clan pay for this horror, she would.

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"War" said Blaise to Hermione that afternoon on the moors, "is coming. We had not been interested in it. The house of Zabini owed nothing to Dumbledore and saw no reason to like the Nameless One either. We were going to stand aside and let you lot slaughter each other... please understand, Granger, it's politics, not anything more important." Blaise had seen all too clearly the fleeting but disgusted look on Hermione's face. "We have to stand for ourselves, because nobody else will stand for us." A look of understanding passed over the face of Eloise, the timid wallflower of Gryffindor house.

"But last evening changes everything. It is not only the outrage to me, taking away the woman I was pledged to; it is that Lucius Malfoy knows that he has slighted me. He must see me as his enemy. If I do not go for him, he will come for me. My family all know that. We know that there is no chance of peace with the Malfoys now; and therefore no chance of peace with you-know-who."

"So we are ready for war. You can tell Dumbledore that the House of Zabini are on his side... he can treat us as allies, if not as friends."

"Blaise... What are _you_ going to do?" asked Eloise Midgen softly. She could not see him sitting around preparing for war when Cleo was being kept against her will somewhere else; and she was right.

"Do? I will stay here. I will trouble no-one, and I will get my NEWTs. Then I will take up my fathers' sword. Wherever they are, however long it takes, I will find the Elves. And _when_ I've found Cleo and brought her back safe... Hermione: I hope your lot don't kill Draco or Narcissa or Lucius. I want them. Tell Dumbledore and Potter that they are mine."

"But perhaps... Cleo wouldn't like that?" said Hermione, more to herself than to either of them, as she saw him stride away with long, angry strides. Eloise shivered as she watched him; and Hermione stopped once again, as she had much too often already in her young life, to contemplate the monstrous necessities and obscene logic of war. There was no point trying to prevent it now, she thought; what would be would be.


End file.
